Tuesday's Gone

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Maggie Brennan half walked, half ran along Deptford Church Street. She was talking on the phone and reading a file and looking for the address in the A–Z. It was the second day of the week and she was already two days behind schedule. This didn’t include the caseload she had inherited from a colleague who was now on permanent sick leave.

‘No,’ said Maggie, into the phone. She looked at her watch. ‘I’ll try to get to the meeting before you finish.’

She put the mobile into her pocket. She was thinking of the case she’d just come from. A three-year-old with bruises. Suspicious bruises, the doctor in A&E had said. Maggie had talked to the mother, looked at the child, checked out the flat where they lived. It was horrible, damp, cold, but not obviously dangerous. The mother said she didn’t have a boyfriend, and Maggie had checked the bathroom and there was no razor. She had insisted that he had fallen down the stairs. That’s what people said when they hit their children, but even so, three-year-olds really did fall downstairs. She’d only spent ten minutes there but ten hours wouldn’t have made much difference. If she removed the child, the prosecution would probably fail and she would be disciplined. If she didn’t remove the child and he was found dead, there would be an inquiry; she would be fired and maybe prosecuted. So she’d signed off on it. No immediate cause for concern. Probably nothing much would happen.

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